SBI oneshots and ideas

The End (Wil, Phil)

Hello, you probably weren't expecting this, you've probably had this archived by now. I wouldn't blame you. As you've probably guessed, this book is on hiatus, it's done.

When I first started writing this it was because I wanted to weight a story about sbi. It was a fairly new group at the time and I really enjoyed the dynamic. So I made this to generate story ideas for a full book.

It's been years, (1 2? Idk.). Somewhere in March or April (around the time I wrote those weird time oneshots) I decided I would stop at 50 oneshots, obviously that didn't happen.

I'm grateful, this fandom sparked me to write again, something I haven't done since I was really little. And it was fun; it got me through covid even.

That being said I didn't want to leave you guys on a writers note. I hate writers notes with a burning passion, but I also didn't want to say nothing ether, even though most of you forgot this fic was a thing and went on with your life.

So, I decided I'd make one last fic. One last send off before I can truly say I'm over with this fic.

How do these go again? Oh right...

Summery: November 16.
Location: L'manburg
Tw: death
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Wilbur stares at his unfinished symphony. An explosion of dirt and stone. He can hear the puffs of his father desperately trying to get air into his lungs.

He doesn't remember when he started crying, but it doesn't matter.

It's over. It's all over.

No more politics; no more arguing.

This nation, this country, is dead. Destroyed by its own creator, it's own leader, general what have you.

He can go home.

He wipes the sluggish tears off his face with a grin and a sniff.

His people, his citizens might be panicking below, might be screaming, shouting, crying, dying—

But it's not his concern anymore.

They aren't his concern any longer.

And is that not beautiful. He can feel the boulders sliding off his shoulders already, the boulders of ice and fire and rock and earth. All sliding away.

But his chest still aches, his heart still burns. His knees are still week with unprecedented strain and his shoulders still reel from unfamiliar shakes.

His hands weep for something he cannot say.

He is free...

But he is still caged.

He is still caged lake a bird.

He can feel his chained wings flutter to break free.

But the chains don't budge.

They flutter noisily, desperate little things that never were able to lift him.

A hand touches his shoulder.

"Wil...?"

It's his father. Black wings grounded like a messy rug on the ground. He too is caged, his mind supplies.

He too is grounded, tethered to the ground by this very server. This reched place full of liars and deceivers.

But not him, he's never lied, always told the truth, and nothing but the truth.

Just like his father always taught him.

Sure he's been wrong before, but no one is a prophet.

He flinches away from his father's hold, never looking in his eyes, no never making eye contact.

For his once lively nation, full of drug addicts and happy smiles, is gone.

All within a dreary November's day.

Techno may have his weird quirks, but Wilbur had his tongue.

So he speaks, he does not now of what he says, they are lost to thing ringing of his ears.

He cares not for the natural wind sweeping through the cave, nor the man standing oh so close to him.

That man shouts something, something about a son.

Wilbur hopes he can forgive his son one day.

For even though his son is no liar, he is Insane.

And as the sword, his sword slides through his chest, his smile finally falls. His crown fallows.

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I hope you've enjoyed these stories, as I don't know how much more I will make.
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